


Something soft (Just this once)

by targaryen_melodrama



Series: When the rest of me is down [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Sam Wilson, Sam Wilson Feels, mention of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 14:32:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16855759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/targaryen_melodrama/pseuds/targaryen_melodrama
Summary: Sam talks a nice talk to his clients at the VA, but sometimes—mosttimes—it’s much easier to let the pain, the despair and the fatigue accumulate without doing anything about it.





	Something soft (Just this once)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my favourite beta for looking at this while in class. (Very relatable.)

The world hates Sam Wilson, and Sam hates it right back.

For a guy who’d seen war and death, it took a lot for Sam to feel that way. And Sam talks a nice talk to his clients at the VA, but sometimes— _most_ times—it’s much easier to let the pain, the despair and the fatigue accumulate without doing anything about it. And God knows Sam’s not great at noticing his discomfort, let alone do anything to remedy it.

Today had been the shitty end to a shitty week. This morning, one of the few vets he saw one-on-one who had been making progress just had a huge set back. It wasn’t her fault, obviously, but it still sucked. During his lunch break, Sarah had called and confirmed that she was losing the house, and that her asshole ex-husband refused to give her more alimony to take care of Layla, so she’d have to take the whole thing to court. And then, at today’s staff meeting—who the hell does Friday afternoon staff meetings?—Viola had announced there’d be government cuts at the VA and that ze wasn’t sure that ze could keep all of the counsellors full-time. Considering Sam was the one with the least seniority, that meant he’d be first on the list of people to go.

When he finally gets home, Sam turns on the TV and regrets it immediately. MSNBC was letting people who had no clue what they were talking about make authoritative statements on federal policy and CNN was letting some political commentator argue about the merits of _hearing both sides_.

Sam feels the tension in his neck and shoulders, and notices his hands are shaking.

 _Fuck_.

He’s worried at work, can’t be at peace at home, the world is collapsing, and just— _fuck_. Goddamn it.

Sam decides to call it a day and heads to his bedroom, fully intending to fall asleep in his work clothes and shutting out the world the only way he knows how, when he hears a knock at his door.

 _Jesus Christ, who the hell_ —

“Wilson, it’s me.”

Sam sighs and makes his way to the door. He does _not_ have the energy to deal with Bucky right now, but the quicker he does, the quicker he can go back to bed and forget about his day.

“Barnes,” Sam says, opening the door. He doesn’t invite Bucky in and hopes he gets the message.

“I wanted to talk—shit. You alright?” Sam looks away from Bucky’s concerned face. It’s the last thing he needs to see right now.

“I’m fine. Look, I know we need to talk—” _understatement of the decade, Sam Wilson_ “—but I...can’t. Not tonight.”

“We don’t have to talk tonight,” Bucky says. “But you don’t look fine at all, and I wanna know if I can do something about it.”

It comes out all at once, against Sam’s will. “What can you do about it, Bucky?” he says, tired, frustrated, and this shy of angry. “You gonna make the government care about vets? Are you gonna make journalists give a shit about Black people? About Black LGBTQ people? Are you gonna give me and my colleagues a job when we get fired? There’s nothing to do, there’s nothing I can do, there’s—God. God _damnit_. I don’t—there’s nothing I can do,” Sam says, his words muffled by his hands, running shakingly on his face.

Sam has no clue how long he stands there, breathing hard and looking anywhere but at Bucky, more annoyed than ashamed at his little outburst. It’s only when it starts raining that Sam moves and heads back inside, leaving the door open in a silent invitation. Sam’s annoyed, but he’s not an asshole, and Bucky doesn’t need to head back out in the rain. At least, that’s the explanation Sam’s going with.

Sam heads for the kitchen, giving up on coping in a healthy way for the evening, and grabs the bottle of brandy he keeps in one of his cabinets for days just like this.

“Want some? Got more than enough for the both of us.”

There’s no answer, and Sam would think Bucky had left if it wasn’t for the floor’s creaking, announcing every step Bucky was taking towards him.

“Sam?”

Sam sighs, puts down his glass, turns around and almost closes his eyes at the look on Bucky’s face.

“First things, first,” Bucky says quietly, “do you want me here?”

Sam wants to shrug and almost does, but it wouldn’t be fair to complicate things for Bucky, who tries his damndest to understand human emotions every day. “You—you can stay.”

“Okay.” Bucky nods, and Sam can almost see him checking off a box in his mental checklist. Bucky takes a step closer, and licks his lips. “Do you want me to help, or do you need me to be quiet?”

Sam feels himself give up before he says a word and manages to be even more annoyed at himself. He could say it’s because he’s really, _really_ tired, and his judgment’s not all there, and he wouldn’t be lying. But the truth is that it’s the look on Bucky’s face, the open, confident vulnerability that Sam tries so hard to hate because of how it makes him trust Bucky that much more.

“You can help.”

Bucky nods again. “Okay. At any point tell me if anything’s uncomfortable, alright?”

“Alright,” Sam agrees, though he has no clue what Bucky’s about to do.

“Did you eat?”

“No, but I’m not that hungry.”

“Grilled cheese sound good to you?”

Sam shrugs. “It’s fine.”

“Go sit on the couch, I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

Sam obeys without question, wonders when the fuck his and Bucky’s relationship got to this point, and then decides not to question it, if only for one evening.

A few seconds later, voices float into the living room and Sam realized Bucky’s put on one of his space podcasts on. A woman talks about how black holes form, and it’s just interesting enough for Sam to listen, but soft enough so that it doesn’t feel invasive. Sam even forgets he’s about to eat until Bucky walks back in with tray with what looks like a perfectly grilled-cheese sandwich, a peeled clementine, a glass of apple juice and a glass of water.

“I...thanks, Bucky.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“You’re not eating?”

“Ate before I got here.”

The grilled-cheese is as good as it looks and the warm food lifts Sam’s spirit just a little bit. After finishing half the sandwich, he takes a look at Bucky, who seems to actually be listening to the podcast. Sam almost feels bad about disturbing him.

“How are you a literal rocket scientist listening to a podcast about space?”

Bucky turns to him with an eyebrow raised. “ ‘M not allowed to be passionate about my career?”

“Didn’t say _that_. It’s just that...well, I don’t think Beyoncé listens to music podcasts.”

“Shouldn’t have fed you,” Bucky sighs. “It gives you more energy to snark at me.” He grabs the tray from the coffee table and heads to the kitchen. “Plus rocket science and astronomy aren’t the same," he explains, like they haven't had this argument before. "Oh, and I think you just called me the Beyoncé of rocket scientists.”

Sam scoffs. “I did _not_. And Bucky, do _not_ get started on the dishes.”

“Just dumped everything in the dishwasher, don’t worry,” Bucky calls back from the kitchen. When he comes back to the living room, his face is serious again, and all of a sudden Sam is back to square one. _Right_. This isn’t just the two of them hanging out. Sam barely resists the urge to sigh again.

“Can I suggest something?” Bucky asks. Sam does a _go for it_ gesture with his hand.

“I’d like to run you a bath. I can leave right after, or...or I can stay. Stay, and, ah, give you a massage. While you’re in the tub.”

Sam has to remind himself to breathe, and to think normal, _rational_ thoughts.

On the one hand, Sam’s muscles are screaming at him and he knows Bucky learned how to give a damn good massage from the physical therapist he saw after his prosthetic got installed.

On the other hand, Bucky’s hands on his body—on his _naked_ body—would be getting dangerously close to addressing the elephant in the room—and the reason why Bucky had come to Sam’s apartment in the first place. 

“This isn’t—we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with, Sam,” Bucky says, ‘cause apparently he’s a mind reader. “But you’re tense and I thought—”

“I know, I know, don’t worry about it. And yeah,” Sam says, before he can think too hard about it. “Yeah, a massage sounds good.”

“Alright. Can I—?” Bucky points to the bathroom.

“Yeah. I think you should find anything you’re looking for in the second to last drawer.”

With a nod, Bucky makes his way to the bathroom while Sam heads to his bedroom to grab sweatpants and a long-sleeve t-shirt for later, and quietly does breathing exercises. By the time Sam feels ready to head to the bathroom, Bucky’s calling his name.

“Whenever you’re ready!”

Sam slowly strips, slips on his bathrobe, and reminds himself that the end result will be worth it.

“I’ll let you get in,” Bucky says quietly when Sam walks into the bathroom. “Tell me when I can come back.”

Sam nods, not really trusting his voice, and puts his clothes down on the counter once Bucky’s out. He takes off his robe, puts it down with the rest of his clothes and sinks into the bathtub.

“Oh God, yes,” Sam murmurs once he’s settled in. The hot water is already doing wonders, and there’s a faint smell of lavender in the air. He waits a few minutes until his body is a lot more relaxed, and calls for Bucky.

“I’m good, Buck.”

Bucky walks back in with a chair behind him and settles behind Sam. Not for the first time, Sam’s really grateful for his clawfoot tub. This massage situation wouldn’t be happening otherwise.

“Let me know if you want me to focus somewhere, or if something’s too much, yeah?”

“Uh huh.” Sam feels Bucky’s hands at his nape and closes his eyes.

It feels... _God_ it feels good. It feels like Sam’s body is literally melting under Bucky’s hands. It feels like the shit Sam has been carrying with him all day is just sliding off, and is gonna disappear down the drain, along with the bathwater.

But Sam’s not the best at accepting kindness from others, never has been, so his mouth moves without his brain’s permission to ask Bucky the one question he’d withheld so far.

“Why?”

Sam feels more than hears Bucky’s sigh, and he knows Bucky understands the question.

“Sam,” he says after a moment. His hands still for just a second and rest on Sam’s shoulders. “I can’t...I can’t do much for you. You’ve got a lot going on, and you don’t want to share the burden, which is fine.” _Damn Bucky Barnes and his fucking observation skills_. “But life is rough and horrifying enough as it is, and no matter what—no matter what we are to each other, if I can, if you let me, I wanna help you not have it so rough. I wanna…I wanna give you something nice. And good. And soft. Just this once.”

 _Jesus Christ_. If Sam’s eyes weren’t shut, he’d probably be crying.

The thing is— _God_ , the thing _is_ , Sam has so much he wants to say. He’d love to tell Bucky that he feels like he’s slipping back into his depressive state, and that it’s fucking terrifying. He’d love to tell him that after his dad’s murder and Riley’s death, Sam feels like everything is out of his control and it’s a godawful feeling. Sam wants to tell Bucky that he thinks about the kiss they shared last week every single day, and that he cares for him in a way he hasn’t cared about anyone in a long time. Sam would love nothing more than to tell Bucky that he’d love to start something with him, nice and slow and good, but that it doesn’t feel fair, not when Sam’s life is going the way it is.

Sam has so much he’d love to tell Bucky, but he can’t. Not tonight. He settles for a quiet, “Okay,” and hopes it’s not too disappointing.

Bucky’s hands go back to massaging Sam’s shoulders, and since he’s not going for what he really wants, Sam thinks that for once, instead of lingering on the what-ifs and maybes, he should let himself enjoy the feel of Bucky’s hands. Let himself enjoy something soft.

Just this once.

 

 **End**.

**Author's Note:**

> Why study when you can turn your anxiety into angsty fic?
> 
> Also i'm not American so I'm not an expert on the politics of specific American news channels, but that seemed right and I hope it made sense and was somewhat accurate.
> 
> As always, I love comments so feel free to leave some. 
> 
> I am on [Tumblr](https://targaryenmelodrama.tumblr.com) if you wanna drop by!


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